After the ride, all finishers feast on a tradition Maine-style lobster bake. (Patrick McCarthy)

The prospect of company is appealing. It’s reason enough to keep going, even though I’m already fantasizing about a hot shower and dry clothes. So I say, “We should ride together.” She nods and we pedal on.

When I’d spoken with Dempsey the day before, we talked about how the event brings out the best in cycling. Riders support each other in a peloton the way the Dempsey Center supports people and families with cancer. “It’s a beautiful metaphor,” he’d said. This year alone, fundraising efforts for the ride had raised more than $1 million before event day.

Volunteers at every corner and every driveway and every rest stop cheer for us as we pedal by. They stand out in the rain shouting encouragement and thank yous. I smile and thank them silently in return.

The rain lets up a bit, but it’s still damp and miserably cold. We grab PB&J at the first rest stop and we can’t feel our feet, but we get back on our bikes and keep pedaling.

We chat. My riding companion is a fitness editor at a women’s magazine, a certified trainer, and a spin instructor, but she doesn’t ride a bike outside much. We mostly pedal side by side. Our rhythm is a little off, though, and on some hills I circle at the top until she gets there. A couple of times I think about just telling her I that I need to warm up so I’m going to hammer the rest of the way and I’ll see her at the finish-line lobster bake. But we agreed to ride together and I’m not going back on my word.

“If we pick up the pace a little, we might warm up,” I offer, cautiously.

There’s a pause. “Confession,” she says. “I don’t really know how to use my big ring.” I look down and realize she’s been riding the entire way in her small chainring, spinning comfortably, but topping out at a speed that won’t raise a heart rate.

“You should try it,” I say. “You’ll move along faster.”

After I give her a quick shifting tutorial, she wrestles with the lever and moves the chain to the right. Her cadence slows a bit, and I push the pace harder, and she’s right next to me. The road is stretching before us, flat and straight.

I say, “Here is a good place to hammer. Let’s go for it.”

We go hard and my heart rate rises and my skin warms. When the road angles up, I tell her to get back into her small chainring, that the important thing is to keep her cadence up and find a comfortable pace on the climb. She tries it and it works. At the bottom of the descent, we resume hammering.

She says, “I’m getting really into this big ring!” I smile.

We guzzle hot chocolate and fluffernutter sandwiches at the last rest stop. I give her a dry pair of gloves, extras I’d been carrying. Her hands are wet and frozen. For the final 15 miles, we chat about our jobs, the recent Homeland cliffhanger, how Dempsey is even better looking in person. We laugh. I’ve forgotten to be miserable. Then we’re crossing the finish line. Dry clothes, warm showers, and steaming lobster are just moments away.

“Thanks for riding with me,” I say. “I couldn’t have done the 50 miles without you.” She smiles, grateful as well. And though I’d imagined myself using every ounce of fortitude to cling desperately to a group of pros, I realize now that sometimes the best use of my own strength is simply to pass it along.